Pride & Politics
by brynnjour
Summary: Stuffy Will Darcy runs for office in Chicago. Local journalist Lizzie Bennet is having none of it. [Modern, AU, WIP] Comments & feedback encouraged!
1. Chapter 1

Hello, dearest, loveliest readers!

Today I am posting Ch 1 of a modern adaptation I've been working on when the angst-o-meter on PL sends me into the red. I have the first 10 chapters finished and the first 5 have been read and edited by my amazing beta, who is everything lovely. Postings will be somewhat scattered for now (as my focus is on finishing PL asapasapasap), but I will throw down a chapter from time to time, so make sure you follow for updates in the beginning (if you're the kind of person who wants to read when things are hot off the presses). Posting will become more regular as soon as PL is in the books.

If you enjoy this variation, please let me know in the comments! It's just a fun little side project for me, but if enough people express an interest I will start posting regularly sooner than later.

Thank you for reading!

xo brynn

* * *

 **Pride & Politics**

A Modern Pride & Prejudice Variation

by Brynn Ashley

* * *

 **CHAPTER ONE**

"Why do I let you talk me into these things, Charles?"

Will Darcy groaned at the sight before him. The Meryton Ballroom was small, crowded, and absolutely _hideously_ decorated. Valentine's Day wasn't for another four days, but it looked like cupid had made an appearance just in time to throw up all over the place. Gaudy paper mâché creations, mismatched balloons, and what appeared to be second-hand streamers flanked him on all sides. When Charles Bingley had promised a night of networking over appetizers at a local fundraising event, he had expected craft services and cocktails, at the very least. Instead, they had arrived earlier than was fashionable and been met only by an assortment of generic-brand Ritz Crackers and a sweaty cheese platter straight out of the grocery store sale bin. Even worse, he was drinking something that tasted suspiciously like spiked Kool-Aid _out of a plastic cup_.

The 'potential donors' he had been encouraged to 'network with' looked like they were barely out of college—and even if they had somehow managed to graduate with their BAs in Halo, Philosophy, Feelings Studies, or some other useless, wholly unemployable degrees—they were probably living in their parents' basements.

The whole thing was ridiculous.

What was he _doing_ here? What was he expected to say to these people? Were they to make polite conversation over vintage comic books and locally sourced, fully organic, artisanal peanut butter? It was as if the entire affair should come complete with its own hashtag, which, as he was to find out much, much too late—it absolutely did.

"Come on, Darcy," his friend urged. "It wouldn't kill you to meet some actual residents of the city you live in, would it?"

"I know plenty of people in the city," Darcy replied coolly.

"Yeah, you know developers, and landlords, and city officials, and half of the Gold Coast, but I don't know how that's going to help you with any actual voters come election time."

"I wasn't aware that my demographic was so heavily weighted towards itinerant hipsters who make their own soap."

Charles Bingley shook his head with a slight, forgiving smile. Though the two had been best friends since they roomed together in their freshman year of college and then pledged the same fraternity, they remained as dissimilar in temperament as ever. Where Charles was gregarious, Darcy was taciturn. When Charles smiled in the company of strangers, Darcy sulked. Luckily, Charles knew that behind all that snark and bravado was an anxious, tense, and socially maladapt gentleman with low blood sugar, who was prone to fits of discomfort when in unfamiliar surroundings. Tonight, Charles had intended to break him of that very uncharitable element of his character. With the mayoral election season right around the corner, his friend needed all the help he could get when it came to improving his attitude in strange company. Still, Charles knew that Darcy didn't mean half of what he said when he was in one of his black moods, and tonight was certainly no exception.

"Settle down, man. This is a good crowd."

Charles surveyed the room with a practiced, diligent eye which betrayed his motives. Darcy groaned again.

"Who is she, Charles?"

Charles nearly choked on his punch.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Yes you do, Charles," Darcy pressed.

He had been here before. The whole experience was starting to take on an annoyingly familiar air. He wondered if Charles would keep his promise to return to his place in order to work on the campaign materials together as they had planned, and replanned, and planned again—or if he'd be forced to call an Uber while Charles absconded with his latest conquest at the drop of a hat. Or worse, when he disappeared into the crowd for the remainder of the evening and left Darcy to find his own way home without a word. It had happened too many times to count, and Darcy was tired of trying.

"Who is she?"

Sufficiently caught in the act, Charles relented.

"Fine. Her name is Jane Bennet and she's an angel."

Darcy rolled his eyes and adjusted his finely pressed lapels. He was hot, irritable, and horribly overdressed.

"You dragged me here _for a girl_?"

Charles' eyes widened in shock, as though they had not had this conversation a hundred times before.

"Not just any girl, Darce!" he cried out, as he so often did. He lowered his voice but spoke loud enough to be heard over the now booming salsa music. "She's the Executive Director of the Longbourn Foundation, which, if you can be bothered to remember, is the reason we're here tonight. It's a very influential community organization—and for someone in such dire need of influencing the community, I think you might want to eat a cracker and try to relax."

Darcy opened his mouth to reply with some cutting remark or another, but it was better for both of them that he was interrupted.

"Wait, hold that thought. Here she comes."

Soon enough Darcy was introduced to Charles' latest angel. Despite his initial poor impressions of the Meryton Ballroom and the idle tech-age flower children who inhabited it, Darcy had to admit that he liked her. Jane Bennet was polished, graceful, and direct—a far cry from the type of girls Charles usually went for—who Darcy could hardly desire to be seen with in company. No, he gave Charles leave to like her. Jane Bennet was a class act. She would do until the next one came along.

An hour later, Darcy was sulking near the wall when Charles returned from his latest dance with his angel.

"Hey!" he shouted, catching Darcy's eye in the crowded room. "Come on, man. Get out there and dance. Or do something. Anything, I beg you." He pointed out the figure of a woman, dancing with Jane somewhere near the middle of the room. Since he hadn't worn his glasses, all Darcy saw was a gyrating, brunette blob.

"That's her sister, I think. Stop being such a snob and come dance with us. Try to have fun or something. Or don't even try for all I care, just come dance."

"Her sister?" Darcy bristled.

"Yeah, Elizabeth. Lizzie, actually, I think? It's pretty loud out there. She's some kind of writer or something. She's also Jane's plus one tonight—and since you're mine…"

"No."

Charles feigned innocence, as was in his best interest.

"No?"

Hungry, tired, miserable, and annoyed—Darcy finally reached his boiling point.

"Come on Charles, what is this? I've already allowed you to drag me to some hole in the wall dive filled with clearance party supplies, bad punch, and listless, useless, Twitter warriors who are entirely dependent on student loans and their suburban parents and probably still will be at forty-five. I won't be roped into some kind of bizarre double date scenario on top of it."

"Come on, man. That's pretty harsh, even for you."

Unfortunately, the DJ had picked that very moment to pause for donor announcements. It was even more unfortunate that neither Charles nor Darcy noticed the silence until it was far too late.

"I have an image to protect, _man_. I can't be slumming it in Logan Square with some professionally unemployed volunteer who ironically blogs about her cats, Instagrams every meal, and sports a tattoo that embodies how Lorde lyrics _make her feel_. Get a grip."

Somewhere, someone coughed.

The two gentlemen turned to face the room.

The room faced back.

 _Jane Bennet and her sister_ faced back.

Charles went white with shock and embarrassment, but Darcy merely clenched his jaw—his feelings moving inward, as always.

"Christ, Darcy. I think she heard you," Charles whispered to his friend. "Actually, I think everyone heard you. Like, for miles."

As the DJ rather awkwardly began his announcements and called Jane to the stage, Darcy grasped the opportunity to make a quick exit.

"Charles, can we go?" Darcy huffed. "I have campaign materials and those slogans to look over. Caroline wants me to get back to her before Monday. Then I'll have the day, the _whole day_ , to relax with Georgie when she gets into town."

Charles nodded, still conscious of the number of eyes in the room fixed on them. Elizabeth Bennet had moved closer to where they stood against the wall and was engaging some friends in a lively conversation. When the laughter rang out from the party, neither Bingley nor Darcy felt they had to wonder at the topic of their conversation.

"Fine with me," Charles agreed. "We should probably get you out of here before you show up on the front page of The Red Eye for inciting a mob, anyway. I can see the headline now, 'Local Political Prospect Can't Hang. Single-Handedly Kills Vibe from Diversey to Fullerton.'"

The muscles in Darcy's jaw throbbed as he finally met the eyes of one Elizabeth Bennet—the target of his misplaced feelings of unease and indignation.

He grimaced.

She smiled.

Unfortunately for Darcy, Monday would be a much busier day than expected—and the headline would be much, much worse.

* * *

 **Next time on Pride & Politics**: Bennetgate begins and Darcy learns how the internet works. Georgiana explains hashtags to a room full of people who think they already know what hashtags are. Caroline Bingley suffers from delusions of grandeur.


	2. Chapter 2

Wow! Thanks so much to everyone who has commented, followed, or faved this story since I posted a few days ago. It was so exciting to log in and find so much support for what is quickly becoming my favorite little stress-reliever. Obviously, I have to post the second chapter now!

Fair warning: I'm still in a rush to get the next installment of PL up, so I doubt I'll be posting again until later this week. Anything is possible, but I wouldn't bet the house on it. I'm still working on modifying my schedule to fit both PL and P&Pol (and real life), so keep following for now (if that's your thing), and I'll do my best to work it out by Chapter 5 (or before).

Finally, buckets of love to my beta! She does her best to keep me honest. Any mistakes you see are mine all mine.

Thanks for reading, everyone!

xo brynn

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWO**

* * *

"Oh my god, Will. What did you _say_ to this girl?"

Georgiana Darcy swung her long, sun-kissed legs and bare feet back and forth from her perch atop the kitchen island in her brother's luxurious, yet rarely used, lakeside kitchen. One of the benefits of studying abroad in Costa Rica seemed to be that she was never without a tan. Darcy looked down at his own exposed arms and wondered exactly how much _studying_ his little sister was actually getting done at the part work-study, part-five-star-resort he had consented to send her to after…her experience last summer. Still, he supposed it hardly mattered as long as she was happy.

"Say to her?" Charles said with a laugh. "He didn't say _anything_ to her, actually. That's kind of the problem."

Darcy regarded his friend through narrowed eyes and resumed pacing the hardwood floor. The heels of his shoes clicked out a nervous rhythm which set everyone but his sister on edge.

" _That's_ the problem, Charles? Really? That I didn't want to flirt and flatter your little girlfriend's sister like a good wingman?"

"I'd hardly call you a good wingman, Darce. Especially after Saturday night."

Caroline Bingley cleared her throat and interrupted the squabbling of her elder brother, who hardly deserved the rank, and her one-time lover, full-time business partner, and _hopefully_ future husband—if everything went as planned.

"Charles, be serious," she hissed. "This is…unfortunate, yes. But fixable. Entirely fixable."

Darcy stopped his frantic pacing and sighed. Leave it to Caroline to downplay a catastrophe. That woman could make the apocalypse sound like a bonfire. Still, he knew he was lucky to have her, and so, as usual, he kept his thoughts to himself.

Meanwhile, James Fitzwilliam, Darcy's cousin and childhood confidante—now also his very expensive and well-worth-the-price-tag lawyer—leaned back into his seat and squinted into the screen of his iPhone.

"I don't know, Caro-lime. This looks pretty bad. What do we do?"

Caroline winced at his use of the timeworn, childish appellation and tapped a carefully manicured fingernail against the countertop. _This_ sound grated on every nerve in the room save her own.

"We ignore it of course," she announced. "We let this _Lizzie Bonnet_ have her little temper tantrum and go on as usual. Nothing changes."

Georgiana rolled her eyes, annoyed with the dismissive air Caroline had worked almost feverishly to instill in the room for the better part of an hour. They were practically ancient! Didn't they know how _anything_ worked anymore?

"Ignore it?! Have you even _seen_ Twitter today, Caroline?"

"Of course I have, Georgie," Caroline snapped back. She hadn't, obviously, but she would hardly be taken to task by an infant. When the gentlemen of the room turned their eyes to her, she changed course immediately. Caroline Bingley was nothing if not a creature designed for self-preservation. "I'm not a dinosaur, dear," she simpered. "Nothing changes."

"What's on Twitter?" Darcy asked, his voice registering in an octave even his own sister did not recognize.

"You're _trending_ , Will! Trending!"

Darcy took the offered phone from her hand and rigidly scrolled down the screen. Georgie had searched the fundraiser's now trending hashtag, #Love4Longbourn. He braced himself for what was to follow.

Apparently, that was impossible.

The seemingly innocuous #Love4Longbourn served as a sort of catch-all for a number of significantly less than charitable sub-hashtags. Darcy's apprehensive gaze turned to an expression of pure nausea as his thumb flew over the increasingly offensive idioms. #DumpDarcy, #SlummingItInLogan, and #MerytonMayhem seemed to be among the most popular choices, though some were more imaginative. He winced as he passed several retweets branded with #CatBlogger and #MayorMouth.

The link to Lizzie Bennet's article was attached to most of them. In others, his own face stared back at him…sometimes sporting a cartoon top hat and monocle along with some lewd comment or other in a font he recognized from Grumpy Cat. He wasn't some kind of technophobe, after all. He had a Facebook account.

"Leave it to the worst generation of all time to turn something as classic and timeless as a good top hat into a gag," he grumbled.

It was hardly flattering—but what followed next was even less so.

"Oh, come on! Georgie, how did they get my high school picture?"

"And that's enough of that!" his sister announced, swiping her jewel-laden phone case from his hand. "No more for you, big brother. You've seen enough."

Darcy turned to Caroline for help but was swiftly disappointed.

"Nothing changes," she commanded. "Nothing. Now, if we can get back to the actual business of the day, gentlemen? Netherfield Marketing doesn't have all day."

Darcy winced, as he always did when she referred to herself in the third—or perhaps fourth?—person, not as merely 'Caroline' or 'Miss Bingley', but as some earthly embodiment of the company they had started together in college. It was more hers than his, really, but that had never stopped her from begging his opinion on everything from client acquisitions to the font on her business cards.

"Of course, Caroline. What were you saying about the press materials?"

An appreciative smile swept over Caroline's face. Darcy was reminded of the Cheshire Cat.

"It looks like we're going with 'Building a Brighter Chicago' after all," Caroline preened. "It tested well with our target audiences and practically _screams_ your preferred talking points."

Georgiana yawned and slid down from the counter as Caroline continued her monologue on maximizing voter 'purchases,' building interest group alliances, and providing proof of concept. No one but her cousin saw the face she made at the sound of Caroline's droning 'business voice,' which was just the way she wanted it.

"You've developed half of this city over the past five years, Will. Even if you do like to keep a low profile, we need people to associate you with your work."

"And your shareholders," Charles said with a wink. "Can't hurt to rub a few elbows with Chi-city's rich and famous while we're out kissing babies, right?"

Caroline shot her brother a look she reserved only for very special occasions—such as when she wanted to rip his head from his body with her bare hands. It was a look he was very familiar with.

"Nobody says _Chi-city_ , Charles," she snipped. "It's plebeian. Now, moving on. As I said before–"

But only Darcy heard her as she rambled on, and barely him, at that.

And so it was that Darcy would not hear the first truly honest opinion on Bennetgate—as he had taken to calling it in his head—until several hours later, long after Charles had _finally_ taken his sister home and James had returned to his usual suite at The Regency.

He knocked on the door of his sister's room and entered with his standard offering of mint chocolate chip ice cream. He had gone downstairs to the first floor sundry shop himself nearly an hour ago. However, instead of going straight to his sister and asking the question he knew most needed asking, he had let it rest in the refrigerator and continued to torture himself by scrolling through his various feeds, checking alert upon alert on his phone, and reading _her_ erroneous, inflammatory, slanderous article again and again.

Who did she think she _was_ , anyway, this cat-blogging crusader? Some modern incarnation of Robin Hood? She was hardly suited to play the vigilante. Her LinkedIn profile revealed nothing of substance and a cursory Google search of her name led him down a sparse trail scattered with offbeat online pieces, smiling headshot photos, and of course—links to her social media accounts. The comments left by her readers were even less encouraging. A _pervert_? He had barely looked at the woman! And how could anything he said be considered _verbally abusive_? Hardly! He hadn't said a single word _to_ her! Where did she get off assembling some kind of clickbait-fueled retweet army to revenge her self-indulgent pride? It didn't bear thinking about, he ultimately decided. He had a campaign to run and a job to do. He certainly didn't desire _her_ good opinion.

Still, by the time he had put down his tablet, he wasn't sure who was more in need of a pint. He could definitely use something a lot stronger than Ben & Jerry's.

"Be honest, Georgie," he asked with uncharacteristic hesitation. "How bad is it? Really?"

His sweet, soft, and strong little sister set down her spoon before responding. She met his eyes with a steady gaze that reminded him rather too much of his mother.

She was growing up too fast.

"Oh, brother," she said on a sigh. It was not encouraging. "It's bad, okay? Like, really bad. You've been parodied…hard. Like, we should probably just wait for a call from SNL at this point because I think you're about to be world famous."

Darcy raised a brow as he scooped another spoonful from the container they shared. He attempted, and failed, to avoid Georgiana's gaze. He wasn't often—well, _nervous_ , but it was impossible to hide from his sister when he was.

"International Man of Mystery famous?"

Georgiana leaned back into her chair and casually raised both feet to rest on the edge of her desk. Her brother was clearly a nervous wreck and had every reason to be. This could be bad. Very bad. Epically bad. Like Swift-Perry bad. Still, she would never tell him _that_. She would protect him, like she always had.

"Even better," Georgiana teased back with a smile. "International Man of Meme-stery famous."

Darcy was unconvinced, and rightfully so. There was no use in waiting, she decided. She might as well throw all her cards on the table.

"No really!" she gushed. "Just think about it! Caroline can have some catchphrases market tested for your disapproval, James will set up the rights to merchandising them on those sleeveless tees you hate, and Charles will figure out some way for your whole miserable experience to get himself laid even more frequently than usual."

To her relief, her brother began to smile.

If she saw the chocolate chip wedged between his front teeth, she said nothing about it.

"In fact," Georgiana continued, "I might get a YouTube channel or something and drop out of college entirely."

"Will you?" Darcy asked in a half-hearted effort to change the topic. "And what would your show be about? Will you be reviewing more than one brand of mint chocolate chip, or should I call down for more?"

"No," she giggled. "I'll be famous for my groundbreaking instructional series on how to keep a brother single forever. I have the perfect example."

With the windows of their penthouse open, the laughter of the Darcy siblings could be heard three floors down.

* * *

Next time on **Pride & Politics**: An entirely Caroline-free chapter! Bless! Lizzie Bennet finally speaks (and we find out the consequences of her snark attack on Darcy)! Georgiana does not start a YouTube series (yet), but if she did - what would you name it?


	3. Chapter 3

Hey, everyone!

I'm back with a little P&Pol chapter-ette! It's obscenely short, but I'll post its follow up sooner than usual to compensate. As always, many many many thanks to my magnificent beta for working with what I have written so far. Any mistakes you see are my own, because I can't leave things well enough alone.

Many thanks for reading! Please comment with any thoughts or feedback!

xo brynn

* * *

 **CHAPTER THREE**

* * *

Lizzie Bennet sipped her chai latte as she nodded her head to the beat of her playlist.

Today was a very special day, and she had downloaded the newly released Lorde album to celebrate. Not that she particularly liked Lorde, generally speaking, but it was entirely too fitting to pass up. She had never had anything worth celebrating on Valentine's Day before and found that she rather enjoyed the experience.

This year, instead of holing up in her tiny, one-bedroom apartment and watching Bridget Jones on repeat as she usually did, she would brave the streets of the city, walk confidently through the sea of glassy-eyed, hand-holding couples, order herself a nice big deep dish pizza, and…and go home, fire up Amazon, and watch Bridget Jones on repeat.

But still, this year was different. She wasn't spending the night with Colin Firth and a pint of raspberry swirl because she _had_ to, she was spending the night with Colin Firth and a pint of raspberry swirl because she _wanted_ to. It was a fact that made all the difference.

And to think, she owed it all to Will Darcy!

To be clear, she wasn't exactly feeling gratitude. On the contrary, she didn't hold a single friendly feeling for the man. He'd basically called her a crazy cat lady with a filter fetish, after all. No, Lord Darcy of Hyde Parkfordshire could go stuff all his cranky old money and his inevitable cease and desist letters up his ass, for all she cared.

But even though she fully expected there would be _some_ consequences for her wildly popular and undoubtedly cheeky reproof in this week's headlining piece of the Sixpoint Star— _she had gone viral, baby!_ —the constant ting of notifications coming from her phone were already proving more than enough compensation for whatever legalese the Darcy family lawyers were going to throw at the company on her behalf.

She had been writing for the online publication for three long years now, the first as a freelance journalist straight out of college, and the past two as a dedicated staff writer. In the beginning, she'd mostly written puff pieces: celebrity gossip, dive bar reviews, and special interest pieces on the occasional city council scandal. It was her city council reporting that had attracted the attention of Sixpoint's senior editor.

Meril Gardiner had been an investigative reporter focusing on the political beat in the 1970s, during the golden age of "New Journalism," a buzzword that no one but Meril used anymore. She constantly tossed her old-guard jargon around in staff meetings, apparently unaware that half of her writers had to Google the pre-internet and thus near-archaic terms she used—outdated phrases like "above the fold," "chasers," and "the lobster watch" being among her favorites. Lizzie knew that some of her fellow staff writers, and most, if not all of the interns, often felt like Meril was speaking a dead language, but Lizzie was fairly certain that the old spitfire did it on purpose. She had gotten the sense that Meril liked being set apart from the crowd early on in their relationship. By now, she was well aware of the fact that Meril used every element of her character, her charisma, and her off-beat, eclectic wardrobe to advance such a purpose.

Even though Lizzie was something of a favorite of Meril's, she'd never had a story _this_ big. She'd never been assigned anything half as juicy as Will Darcy's eventual mayoral run, and had it not been for the rude comments he'd hurled across the Meryton Ballroom a mere four days earlier—she likely wouldn't have been. There were several more experienced, better known journalists in her office who still hadn't gotten over the shock of Meril's offer to Lizzie. It had been made the very day her article had been posted and within ten minutes of receiving its first 25,000 views. Elizabeth Bennet, _cat blogger_ , was to have an _entire column_ of her own! It was everything she had ever wanted. The Bennet Report would focus on city life, trending issues, hot gossip, and—of course— _Will Darcy_. It was like someone had handed her the keys to the kingdom when she was still learning to drive.

Then again, as long as Will Darcy kept opening his big, beautiful, snarling mouth—she'd be cruising in no time.

She supposed she had her sister Jane to thank for all of this, maybe even more than the _somewhat-less-than-gentlemanly_ billionaire's haughty manners and bad attitude. If her well-meaning do-gooder sister hadn't all but dragged her to her zillionth fundraiser that night (and then spent the whole evening flirting with that suave blonde number), well, she would never have had the sublime pleasure of being horribly insulted by a man who might very well be the future mayor in a room full of witnesses.

Of all the luck!

Lizzie scrolled through her feed for what might have been the thousandth time that morning as the 74 bus rounded a corner to a crescendo of angrily honking horns. She often thought it was a miracle that they arrived at her small Lincoln Park office without incident as often as they did—although not always. It was all part of the joy of the commute.

She smiled as she skimmed the long list of hashtags currently pairing with #Love4Longbourn across Twitter. #CatBlogger, #TeamBennet, and #DumpDarcy were becoming fast favorites—in that order. A loud, very un-commuter like laugh escaped her as she caught sight of a meme featuring an obviously Photoshopped Will Darcy on horseback, complete with both a top hat and a monocle.

It was accompanied by "#ChicagoGent," a moniker Lizzie gleefully chased down the Twitterverse rabbit hole. It was better than she could have imagined. The tired, miserably single, or otherwise spurned ladies of Chicago had latched onto #ChicagoGent with a fury, sharing their own hair-curling tales of dating disasters, terrifying Tinder matches, creepy coworkers, moronic mansplainers, and _epically_ bad breakups. Three days in and Will Darcy had already become the poster child for every unbelievably bad date, awful ex, and miserable perv the city could hold.

She almost felt bad about it all. Almost. For a moment. And then she remembered that Will Darcy was a nasty, disagreeable, vulgar know-it-all who probably couldn't care less what she thought of him. Darcy had billions to fall back on if even _one_ of his precious dreams should fail, which, it seemed, they never did—and she had an overdue rent check to send, a Capital One statement longer than The Odyssey, and more importantly, a column to write.

"Sorry not sorry, Darcy boy," she said with a shake of her head. Free creative license to take down the infamously arrogant, overindulged, playboy-villain of Chicago? This might even be fun!

Wearing a self-satisfied smile, she clicked on one of the many featured links that led back to her own article and reread it for the hundredth time, still not entirely convinced it hadn't needed a bit more of an edit—but what was done was done. She would just have to do better next time. And the time after that. And the time after that.

Yes, this was going to be fun—and _profitable_ , in every sense of the word.

When her latest perusal was complete, Lizzie's eyes darted to the blinking email notification at the bottom of her phone and watched as the number climbed higher, higher, and higher.

"Well, well, well, Lord Darcy," she whispered to his image, the meme now screen-capped and saved to her favorites. "Your forked, platinum tongue just might be the best Valentine's Day gift I've ever received. How shall I ever thank you enough?"

By the time the 74 screeched and scuttled its way to her stop some twenty-odd minutes later, she had a very good idea of where to start.

* * *

 **Next time on P &Pol**: Whatever happened with Jane and Charles? Will poor old Chuckie ever get another dance, or is Darcy purposefully keeping him buried in paperwork? Who will win the battle of the hashtags?! Has Caroline learned how they work? (And does anyone care ?) Top notch answers at bargain prices!

And there are _pancakes!_ And Nutella! And _pancakes!_

Thanks for reading! Share your thoughts with me in the comments!

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I bet you all thought this chapter was over, but I have a bah-bah-bah-bonus bit to share! Warning: The piece below was not beta'd! Enjoy!

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 **SIXPOINT CHICAGO: WE KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE.**

* * *

 **Love and Loss in Logan: The Heartbreaking Tale of One Catblogger's Brush with Will Darcy  
** _Lizzie Bennet  
_ _Staff Writer_

With zillions in the bank, almost impossibly great hair, and a likely mayoral bid looming in his future, one would think that Will Darcy has little to complain about. However, if my brush with the heir to Darcy Development, Chicago's premier investment, construction, and real estate group is any indication—one would be dead wrong.

In other words, sorry ladies(!), but Chicago's most eligible bachelor is no gentleman.

Last evening, I attended #Love4Longbourn, a Valentine's Day themed fundraiser which many of you might remember from my last piece, an interview with my sister, Jane Bennet. Jane heads up the Longbourn Foundation, an organization dedicated to building community works projects and funding local educational opportunities for all ages. If you missed that piece, I can summarize it by saying that The Longbourn Foundation's work is massively important to those keeping our city's community centers open, stocked, and ready for students. This year's event was aimed at funding Longbourn's _Growing Communities_ initiative, an urban gardening project which allows students to learn and participate in the food system by growing produce for local service centers and shelters.

I knew from the invitation that #Love4Longbourn was going to be a great night filled with my favorite things: good people, dancing, homemade tamales, and bingo, but when I received the evite, I had no idea that I would have the unequalled pleasure of inhabiting the very same ballroom as Will Darcy! Yes, _that_ Will Darcy—every red-blooded Chicago woman's very own Prince Charming. And yet there he was, in all his finely-pressed, indulgent, elegant, and most-likely-imported glory.

Will Freaking Darcy. Talk about a night to remember! I can honestly say I've never had a more memorable evening.

Settle down, girls! I'm getting there.

He was characteristically aloof—or what I assumed to be characteristically aloof, given that he looked pretty damn aloof in every one of the bazillion Google image results that returned when I typed his name into the search bar from my secluded position at the bar.

Yeah, I Googled him. Don't act like you're so above it. I know you've Googled him too.

So, there he was—all characteristically aloof—making some sort of face at the appetizers. _Mmm mmm mmm!_ Ladies, you have to believe me when I tell you that it was love at first sight.

I have never, ever, not in all my life laid my eyes on a sharper, more refined, perfectly exquisite Wisconsin cheddar. Seriously. It changed me.

Oh—and Will Darcy was there too. Unfortunately, he didn't appear to be having a similar experience. A quick return trip to Google revealed no mention of what I perceived to be an unfortunate case of lactose intolerance, but I resolved to check for myself.

That cheddar was calling my name.

While I loaded my plate with enough cubes to rival a set of Lincoln Logs (it was cheat day, okay?), I couldn't help but overhear that the—wait for it— _characteristically aloof_ Will Darcy had a few words for the cheese course himself. In fact, it soon appeared that he had a few words for everyone and everything in the room. I won't waste your time by getting into all that was said, but suffice it to say that the word "hipsters" passed through his perfectly pursed lips more than once in my hearing, and that you or somebody you know would most likely be insulted by his opinions on both liberal and fine arts studies. Odd, considering how well he seemed to expect his own prose to be received.

Shakespeare! You have been warned!

Anyway, the fact that Mr. Darcy, The Viscount Moneybags, was no friend to sliced cheeses and the assembled company of community leaders, local business owners, program staff, and #Love4Longbourn donors didn't surprise me overmuch. After all, my initial Google search had made it pretty clear that he was more comfortable popping bottles on sixty-foot yachts in a sea of barely-legal (not to mention barely-dressed) models. What's a community center fundraiser when you have Dom and a transparent swimming pool waiting at home for you?

Yes, really.

Either way, despite the fact that I had a few questions of my own for Little Lord Darcy, my knight in shining Armani, who has lately been rumored to be running for mayor in the next election cycle, I had cheese to eat—and cheese waits for no man (or woman). More particularly, I got the feeling that he wasn't likely to agree to an interview with one of the great unwashed normals under the present circumstances. I set a reminder in my phone to contact his people the next day regarding the potential mayoral bid and went on with my evening, fairly certain that I had heard the last from him for the evening.

Was I ever wrong!

About an hour later, I could be found getting down— _waaaaaay down_ —with some Jarabe Tapatío.

(If you must know, I have killer moves. Especially when there is sangria involved.)

It soon became pretty clear that I hadn't been the only one to take note of a _special someone_ while paying my respects to the cheese platter. Far from it! In fact, it appeared that our very own champagne-pickled, diamond encrusted, All-American dreamboat—yes _that_ Will Darcy—had noticed me. _Me!_

Let me tell you, when the music stopped and the room went silent… well, it was like some kind of romantic comedy. The big budget kind! Failing that, at least one of those sexy little indie flicks where everyone talks their feelings to death in a semi-circle for two hours.

There he was— _all characteristically aloof_ —looking every inch the gentleman, despite the rather unfortunate (and what I can only imagine to be surgically induced, given its permanence) pout. He was looking right at me, ladies.

Despite all my Googling, it was hard not to feel a little like Cinderella at the ball.

And then, he spoke.

Now _this_ prose—ladies and gents—well, I remember every single solitary word! It would be hard not to, given that literally every person in the room would repeat them all back to me a few moments later. For the sake of accuracy (and because I will certainly never forget them), here they are in their entirety.

 _"_ _I have an image to protect! I can't be seen slumming it in Logan Square with a professionally unemployed volunteer who blogs ironically about her cats, Instagrams her meals, and sports a tattoo that embodies how Lorde's lyrics make her feel! Get a grip!"_

Now, I know what you're thinking.

 **SWOON** , amirite?

That _image_ though!

Seriously, he checks all my boxes: rude, insufferably arrogant, horrible conversationalist, likely emotionally unavailable, my dad would probably hate him on sight alone… I could go on and on.

Unfortunately, by the time I made my way across the room to profess my undying devotion to the man, Prince Charming's coach must have been about to turn into a pumpkin because _boy was gone_. That's just low, right? I mean, how can you say such incredible things to a woman and just take off without so much as a: "Hi, what's your name? Nice to meet you. I'm a massive prick."

But a girl has to dream big, right?

So, because it's almost Valentine's Day and I believe in fairy tales, I thought I might spend this week's opinion blog on something a little less important that the never ending road-work on the Dan Ryan (still never ending), Kendall Jenner's latest lip color (just more mauve), or even my Westworld Season Two predictions (seriously, don't get me started).

So here it is: This week's opinion piece—the last before Valentine's Day—is my very own **open love letter to Will Darcy**. It's written predominantly in Will Darcy's first language, Richpeopleeze, so there's no shame if you need a dictionary to translate (like me).

Here goes nothing!

* * *

ATTN: His Royal Highness The Prince William Charles Andrew Darcy of Chicagolandia, Prince and CEO of Darcy Development, Duke of Hyde Parkfordshire, Earl of Lakeview, Baron of Snide Remarks, Lord of the Side-Eye, and Great Steward of Capital Gains

Thank you for the rare compliment of your attention, kind sir! As you away-ed so suddenly to your barouche, I was not free to share my own, rather passionate feelings regarding the many subjects of your exceedingly eloquent discourse. Allow me to do so now, should it please your most excellent excellency.

Fine sir, while I do spend my days "slumming it" in Logan, it occurs to me that you must be unfamiliar with the area, considering that you so rarely leave that frigid, hundred-story Apple store in the sky you call home. Please do excuse us if we are rowdy. It's fun here! We have real coffee, countless taco options, neighbors that make eye contact, and grass! That's right! _Grass!_

And while I do work with organizations occasionally—unfortunately, I am by no means such a diligent a volunteer as you believe! Further Googling suggests that you might need a little assistance in this area yourself, considering you've done little more than cut ribbons over the last five years that you've presided over Darcy's Development's "outreach" arm. Perhaps we should rectify such an oversight together! The Longbourn Foundation breaks ground on a new community center this Thursday. Will I see you there? Perhaps I should bring Mary and Kitty?

But of course, you have not been introduced! How positively improper of me!

Kitty and Mary, my two tabby cats, often make cameo appearances at _Sixpoint_ from time to time. Judging from your earlier comments across the entire length of the Meryton Ballroom, you must have known this already. Could it be that you are a fan of my work? I knew you would be an ardent reader! Mary is an old, morose mouser from home and Kitty is a lively, if rather stupid, tag along. I'm not sure if they plan to head to the polls next February, but if our conversation last night is any indication, they might not be voting for you.

And, dearest heart, of course I Instagram my food! I live in one of the most colorful, delicious neighborhoods in the city! #NoFilterNeeded is a way of life. Many of our restaurants source our food from urban gardening projects right here in the neighborhood! Unfortunately, we have lost three such gardens to Darcy Development projects over the past two years. Alas, such is the cost of doing business in areas Will Darcy would like to do business.

Oh, my little golden ducat! There is but one misapprehension you seem to hold. I do not, in fact, have a Lorde tattoo (at least not yet!). Imagine my surprise that you, who knows the deepest longings of my heart so well, would suffer such a falsehood!

There is a particularly fine artist at ChiCity Ink who would be glad to remedy such an oversight on my part. Char has done some excellent work for me in the past, but we seem to have forgotten all about Lorde! Perhaps after joining me to volunteer at the Longbourn Foundation's new project site, we might mark the occasion with matching his and hers tattoos?

You're paying.

If not, I will try to understand. It's not every woman who can compete with a bevy of shirtless bombshells who come prepared with their own non-disclosure agreements (I told you I Googled), but a girl _can_ dream!

We'll always have Meryton,

LB

* * *

Unfortunately, Lord Darcy's email address is not publicly available, so my silly little cat-and-taco blog here at _Sixpoint_ will have to do. If I get a response (fingers crossed, gals!), you'll be the first to know.

In the meantime, I'll be paying _very_ close attention to his mayoral run (and you should too!). I won't name names here (how positively uncouth!), but personally, I think it would be _incredibly_ unfortunate if a man who cannot abide the company of Chicagoans for more than five minutes at a time became their mayor based on nothing more than the number of zeros in his bank account and an (admittedly incredible) head of hair.

Will Darcy, for instance (totally random example, just off the top of my head), may want to be your mayor...but do _we_ want _him?_

Something tells me we can all do a _lot_ better for ourselves—Lorde tattoos or not.

* * *

 _Is there a "Lord Darcy" in your life? What would you say to them? Share your own horror stories and sound off in the comments!_


	4. Chapter 4

Many thanks to all who have left their thoughts, feelings, and ideas in the comments!

I love reading your replies and they always inspire me to get back to writing. Caroline has received some grief so far (as she tends to do!), so while I do apologize that she _will_ appear in some future chapters, rest assured that the next few are blessedly Caro-lime free (and filled with lots and lots and lots of D&E). ;)

Much love to my incredible beta, aekw, as always. As a serial-re-editor, I take full responsibility for any mistakes you might find along the way.

xo brynn

* * *

 **CHAPTER FOUR**

* * *

"I know it's awkward as hell, Darce, but can you put on a brave face for me just this once? Please?"

Charles Bingley employed every art and allurement at his disposal as he directed a sincere look of pure desperation at his friend. They sat at a booth near the rear of Gibson's, as they usually did when Darcy found the time to escape his State Street offices long enough for lunch. Darcy held his tongue until the waiter placed their filets on the table and returned to…wherever waiters went when they weren't at the table. Cutting into his meat, he made his reply to the napkin placed on his lap.

"Let me get this straight, Charles, because I want to make sure I understand you. You think I'm going to accompany you _and your girlfriend_ ," Darcy looked up at his friend, who shot him a look of warning. He cleared his throat and continued, "your girlfriend, who is lovely by the way, on some kind of awkward, doomed to fail, epically bad double date with _Lizzie Bennet_ , of all people? Seriously?"

Charles shook his head. Darcy thought he had never seen him so serious, at least not for so many minutes together.

"It's not a date, Darcy. It's dinner."

Darcy guffawed, hoping Charles would catch the drift before he had to spell it out for him in any greater detail. They were in public and could be overheard. The last thing he wanted was a late resurgence of the #ChicagoGent nightmare. It had been three long months since Lizzie Bennet's first article and that particular mortification was just beginning to fade away. Unfortunately, #MayorMouth was proving to have much more staying power.

"Dinner _is a date_!" Darcy hissed, trying to keep his voice down.

"It's dinner at Jane's parents' house for fuck's sake, Darcy," Charles shot back. "Not candlelight at Celeste. How is a backyard barbeque with my girlfriend's family a date?"

"No."

Seeing himself blocked in, Charles adjusted his strategy. He was a Bingley, after all.

"Atlanta. You owe me."

"No."

"The thing with Anne. You owe me."

"No."

Now thoroughly exhausted, Charles abandoned all his expertly devised tactics and schemes in favor of sincerity.

"I need you to come, Darce," he pleaded. "I'm…I'm proposing."

Darcy nearly choked on his steak. He gathered his napkin in both hands to cover his mouth while he attempted to regain some sense of equilibrium.

"I'm sorry, Charles. You're _what_?"

"You heard me. I'm going to ask Jane to marry me. I need you there, man. For moral support and…you know, in case things don't…in case things don't go as planned."

"You're seriously going to propose _marriage_ to a woman you've known for…three months? _Three months_ , Charles?"

"I know, Darce. Isn't it great? When you know you just know, right?"

Charles was practically beaming. Had _everyone_ lost their minds? Had he missed something? Darcy eyed his glass with suspicion. Was it in the water? This was precisely why he never drank tap. Not in this city.

Sensing his friend's hesitation, which truth be told, he had more than expected, Charles forged onward, reciting his lines from memory.

"I know how it looks to you, really. But Jane is perfect for me. She's funny, smart, sweet, kind, and…she's just amazing, Darce. She loves her job and she's great at it. She's dragged me all over the city to soup kitchens and shelters. I'm helping her plan that new community center project," Charles cleared his throat nervously. "You know, from the fundraiser."

"I see."

Emboldened by his friend's disapprobation, Charles defended his choice in precisely the manner he knew would best sway Darcy to his way of seeing things.

"Darcy, I feel like a different person. A better person. She's exactly the kind of girl my parents would have wanted me to marry. I'd be lucky to have her, man. Blessed beyond reason. I don't deserve her."

And there it was. The shared burden of all adult orphans, laid bare on the table.

Darcy busied himself by meticulously spearing a carrot with his fork before slicing it in two. Why couldn't anyone portion carrots correctly? Was everyone going around gnawing on their vegetables like Bugs Bunny these days? Were proper table manners some kind of dying art? It was ludicrous. He'd have to find somewhere else to eat lunch soon if they didn't get their plating together. Maybe Caroline would have a suggestion or two…actually, _of course_ Caroline would have a suggestion or twenty. She was rarely without one.

"You think she might say no then?" he muttered to his plate. "I might wonder why you'd ask at all."

"And I might wonder why my friend is so quick to desert me in a time of need over some stupid article," Charles fumed.

To his friend's great aggravation, Darcy was unmoved.

" _Articles_ , Charles. Plural."

"Fine," Charles seethed, clearly not caring who heard them. "Over some stupid _articles_ , plural. Remember what Caroline said? Nothing changes. And you've certainly been acting like something has changed since I started seeing Jane. She hardly knows you."

Darcy placed his fork back on the table and met his friend's uncharacteristically icy glare. He felt himself beginning to fold.

"It's awkward, Charles," Darcy replied honestly. "What do you want from me? The woman has some kind of vendetta against me. I can't sleep for all the alerts on my phone. I had to Skype Georgie and ask her how to turn them off."

Charles sighed and threw his own battle-scarred napkin on the table.

"I want you to let it go, man. Apologize. Grovel. I don't care. Jane isn't going anywhere and that means her sister isn't either. Make _peace_ with her. If you can't do that, at least try to negotiate some sort of ceasefire for the times you're inevitably going to be in each other's company. Because believe me, it's inevitable."

Visions of sharing cozy Sunday afternoons gathered around a table with Lizzie Bennet assailed Darcy from every angle. He was seething in a corner while she recorded his every move on her tablet. She laughed with her friends as she caught his eye over a stack of pancakes and he was twelve years old again—anxious, awkward, and desperate to be let in on the joke. _Inevitable_? Was it really?

A second look at Charles confirmed Darcy's worst fears. Charles saw the dread flicker in his friend's eyes and mistook it for a sign of acquiescence.

"It won't be so bad, Darcy. Hell, do it for me if you won't do it for yourself. But I want you to come with me and act like my friend instead of some Old Hollywood recluse afraid to be seen in the papers with his Girl Friday. She'll behave, I promise. Jane promised."

"I doubt Lizzie Bennet would appreciate being referred to as anyone's Girl Friday, Charles. Least of all mine."

"Oh, come on already. You know what I mean."

Charles summoned every unsettling, anxious, terrified feeling within him in a last-ditch effort to appeal to his best friend's better angels.

"Please."

Darcy leaned back against the leather bench seat and folded his hands. It was no use arguing. Charles had already decided for them. If he meant to marry this girl, and he clearly did, there was nothing else for it.

"You drive a hard bargain, Charles," he grumbled.

"Does that mean I've won?"

Darcy nodded, already anticipating the deep regret he would feel when he had time to fully consider the matter back in his office. He was not wrong.

To Darcy's reserved ear, Charles practically squealed with delight.

"I want to hear you say it, Darcy."

Darcy threw his hands in the air in an exasperated show of surrender. What was the point in denying Charles anything today? The battle had been won, but the war was far from over.

"Yes, Charles. You win. I'll come to your barbeque at the Bennets."

"And you'll play nice?"

"I will…I will play nice enough, yes."

* * *

"He's bringing who?!"

Lizzie Bennet could not believe her ears.

"Sorry, for a second it sounded like you said Will Darcy was tagging along on our weekend at the cabin, but I'm probably just having some kind of seizure or waking nightmare. Maybe I've fallen through a wormhole and become trapped in an alternate reality where my sister thinks I'd be _caught dead_ in that man's company."

"You're not dying, sleeping, or trapped in an episode of the X-Files, Lizzie. Charles invited Will Darcy as his guest, so Will Darcy is coming to the cabin."

Lizzie shot a look of pure incredulity at her once dearest sister, now mortal enemy. What was she _thinking_? Had she gone completely dumb, or was Charles just _that good_ in bed? There could be no other explanation for it. Charles Bingley was either God's gift to boxer briefs or her sister had gone and lost her damn mind.

And why would _he_ come, anyway? Were there a few prize insults he had forgotten to share? Was he planning to tell her what he thought of her column to her face? Was he some kind of masochist?

Jane set down her mimosa and gathered her strength. She knew this moment would come eventually. She had rehearsed in the mirror several times that very morning. She glared over her french toast at her younger, bossier, significantly less reserved sister. As it turned out, all her diligent practice paid off. Lizzie's burgeoning rage was wholly extinguished as Jane continued her mission of peace.

"Calm down, Lizzie," she warned. "You had to know this would happen sooner or later. He's Charles' best friend. And Charles is my…he's _Charles_ , Lizzie. He's not going anywhere, and neither is Will Darcy."

When Lizzie replied, her usually animated tone had taken on a touch of their younger, often insufferably obnoxious sister, Lydia. Though both sisters heard it, neither felt it would benefit their argument to mention such a similarity.

"But he's bringing him to _our cabin_? _Will Darcy_? Will Darcy is coming to _our home_?"

Jane pursed her lips to contain the smile which threatened her efforts.

"It's not like I'm asking you to share a bunkbed, Lizzie. And I think you heard me the first time."

Lizzie dug into her pile of Nutella frites with a fury. She was sorry to punish her brunch for such heated thoughts of Mr. Darcy, but she wasn't about to let this go. Not even slightly. Not even when she was letting this go.

"I want to hear you say it, Jane."

Jane sipped her mimosa calmly. She was beginning to like mimosas, actually, despite her earlier hesitations. In fact, she was beginning to _need_ the bottomless mimosas offered at Lokal during the standing weekly brunch appointment with her sister. All this talk of Will Darcy was becoming more than her soft heart and sensible disposition could handle. She almost got the feeling that there was more to Lizzie's near-obsession with the man than she was letting on. _Almost_.

"Yes, Lizzie," she sighed and launched into her well-rehearsed diatribe without further hesitation. "Will Darcy is coming to our cabin. To our house. He will eat a burger and avoid mom's potato salad, if he knows what's good for him. We will sit around the bonfire, talk about work, toast some marshmallows, drink a few beers, and act like friends. We will be _everything that is charming_ and stay on our best behavior, if we know what is good for us and don't want our bodies turning up in Lake Michigan and our sisters feigning either regret or innocence on the next episode of Dateline. We will not argue local politics, fish for unsavory quotations, or use _any_ part of _any_ conversation which occurs in that cabin, outside that cabin, or within fifty-miles of that cabin as material for one of our articles. None of it. I don't care what you do, or say, or write on your own time, but this weekend is mine. Do you understand?"

Lizzie, having developed a newfound but not entirely unexpected respect for her sister and bolstered by previously unforeseen amounts of Nutella and champagne, began to feel herself fold.

"You drive a hard bargain, sister," she sighed, raising her glass in a toast.

"So you'll play nice?" Jane beamed. "For me?"

Lizzie finished her mimosa and motioned for another. It was going to take all the cheap champagne and hazelnut spread in Wicker Park to keep her from backing out now.

"Yes, Jane. I'll play nice. For one night, anyway."

* * *

Will Lizzie play nice? Is _anyone_ out there willing to take that bet?

Place your best wagers in the comments.

Next time on **P &Pol**: Darcy gets some bad news. We play a little game I like to call "Meet the Bennets." Darcy and Lizzie share the same air once more, with predictable results. #Glamping #WeekendWithTheBennets #WhyMomWhy #ExtraExtra #LiquidCourage


	5. Chapter 5

Okay, JAFFfam—

I don't usually post chapters on FFnet before they go through the test kitchen at AHA [insert plug here], but boy howdy did I have a _**rough** _time with the last chapter of PL! I'm in desperate need of some positivity in my post-list, which means you get the first look at P&Pol this week! This is the last chapter that I have beta'd, so there might be a bit of a pause before the next post, but I couldn't leave all you wonderful people hanging! I'm working on the next batch of five while my beautiful beta makes it through the last chapters, so posting will pick up soon even if there is a brief wait. Shout out to my supahstars, Dizzy Lizzy.60, Lynned13, and irislim; newcomer Astarte2016; my lovely fellow chicagoan wonderwoman1970; the old guard of NotACursedChild, Nina, darcy84, LoveInTheBattleField, kissmekim; my very first commenter — alyslee — and all of the fabulous guests!

Thanks so much for keepin' the dream alive with me! And now—some good ol' fashioned JAFF.

recap: Darcy is a Valentine's-themed grinch. Lizzie blogs her feels and winds up with a shiny new promotion. Darcy scowls at carrots. Charles loves Jane. Jane loves Charles. Darcy and Lizzie are persuaded and/or guilted into sharing a little r&r with the Bennets.

* * *

 **CHAPTER FIVE**

* * *

Darcy directed his customarily nondescript black Range Rover up the long, winding drive to the Bennet cabin and prodded Charles with his free hand.

"Wake up, Charles. We're here."

True to form, his practically narcoleptic friend had fallen asleep almost as soon as they'd left the city.

Traffic had been light, and the steady speed coupled with the near quiet of Darcy's SUV—he couldn't abide loud music and talk radio made him sick to his stomach—had lulled Charles to sleep faster and more deeply than a baby.

Darcy thought it was just as well. He had planned to have the time to himself in order to gather his thoughts and smooth his rapidly fraying nerves before he encountered the very subject of his consternation—Lizzie Bennet, staff writer at the Sixpoint Star and the bane of his existence.

To his practically immeasurable displeasure, Charles had flatly denied every one of his requests to drive separately, believing, likely with good reason, that Darcy would either take the earliest opportunity to make his escape, or not show up at all.

Pleased enough with Darcy's initial agreement to attend the 'casual dinner' at the Bennet's, Charles hadn't bothered to inform his friend that it was, in fact, a 'casual weekend' that was planned at the family's Wisconsin cabin until several days after their lunch at Gibson's. He had feigned ignorance, as usual, and apologized repeatedly for his oversight. Still, the plans had been made and Mr. and Mrs. Bennet had already been informed to expect him. Unless Charles' proposal went very, very south—an outcome he hardly wanted for his friend, though he fleetingly entertained nonetheless—there would be no escaping Lizzie Bennet's company until tomorrow afternoon, at best.

"Charles," Darcy attempted to rouse his friend again. "I'm parking. Wake up."

As Charles finally began to stir in the seat next to him, Darcy pulled his car next to a long line of vehicles he suspected must belong to the Bennets. A small, hardly roadworthy Honda Civic and a garishly bright green Hybrid flanked him on each side. Further to his left, a ruby Jetta had been left in the middle of the drive, its path blocked by two older, rusty models which rested on cinderblocks near an outdated black BMW. He was hardly interested in cars as a general rule—he had even let Caroline pick out the Range Rover—but he couldn't help but examine the assembled vehicles as he considered the old chestnut of Goldilocks and the Three Bears. Here he was arriving at a cabin in the woods, which car belonged to Lizzie Bennet?

His question was answered for him as the woman herself descended the steps of the small, practically folksy cabin. She made her way to the Jetta in the drive and he congratulated himself on his choice as he turned his attention to his phone and pretended not to notice her.

"Great. Just great," he muttered to himself, removing his glasses to rub the sore spot at the bridge of his nose.

After being lost in his own thoughts for so long, Charles' voice surprised him.

"Cold feet already, Darce? I thought that was supposed to be my move?"

"No reception," he grumbled. "Not a single bar."

"Yeah, about that," Charles yawned.

"You _knew_?"

His friend adopted his most sheepish grin to ward off the daggers Darcy was currently shooting in his direction. Unfortunately, Darcy was in rare form today and not even Charles' best efforts at contrition seemed to hit their mark.

"Um, Jane might have mentioned something."

"Charles," Darcy groaned. "Do I have to remind you that I'm in the middle of planning a very serious campaign? A multi-million dollar campaign which your own sister is heading, and that she is likely to be more than a little put out by all of this?"

"Hang Caroline, Darcy. She's put out by everything," Charles said with a laugh. "I have a woman to woo, and I need you all to myself."

Their brief tête-à-tête, which was to be their last of the weekend, was interrupted by a shrill voice calling out to them from the door. A woman Darcy presumed to be Mrs. Bennet stood on the front deck, her short, red curls and bright printed romper affording her a rather clownish appearance, at least from a distance.

Lizzie Bennet seemed to have vanished entirely.

As much as Darcy wished he could do the same, they had already been spotted by at least two Bennets. It was time to face the music.

"Well," Darcy mumbled to himself. "At least if I don't have service, _she_ doesn't either."

"Boys! Boys!" Mrs. Bennet cried again, in an apparent attempt to break the sound-barrier she seemed very near to achieving. "This way! Come on in and make yourselves at home."

The two younger men did as instructed, pulling their bags from the car as Mrs. Bennet turned her attention indoors.

"Tom! Tom, the boys are here! Yes! Charlie and his friend…Yes, the one Lizzie writes about. Yes, he's here! I swear, you haven't listened to a single word I've said in twenty years. He came with Charlie to stay the weekend. Yes, all weekend…Oh, be nice, Tom! No one wants to hear your thrilling recitations of the Communist Manifesto here. Yes! He's right outside! Girls! Lizzie! Jane! Lydia! The boys are here!"

Darcy and Charles made their way inside the small cabin, their eyes still adjusting to the light as they looked around for the respective objects of their attention.

Charles found Jane immediately, which was hardly surprising given that she seemed to appear out of thin air, wrapping him in a rather indecorous hug in the blink of an eye.

Darcy was less fortunate.

Once again without the aid of his glasses, he had to squint to find her. When he did, it was clear that she had removed herself to the far side of the living room, perhaps to avoid being seen.

But there she was.

 _Elizabeth Bennet._

He hadn't been within ten blocks of the woman since the night he'd barely laid eyes on her in the Meryton Ballroom, though he had stared at her face on his computer screen more than long enough to easily recognize her at a distance, even without his damnable glasses. She was almost exactly as he had imagined her to be, which was in itself not an entirely unwelcome surprise. Two months after the first article and a week after the fifth was posted, he had finally relented to Georgie's pestering and admitted that Lizzie Bennet _was_ rather pretty, in a way, if you were into that sort of nonchalant, bohemian vibe he identified with long tanks, jeans, too much jewelry, and sandals—which he was not.

Not that it mattered.

He hardly thought it was important if the devil that tormented you was pretty or plain, but he had stared long enough, and often enough, at her picture to draw his sister's attention.

After the requisite greetings to his hostess, Jane, and a younger sister of about Georgie's age he thought was named Laura, or Lindy, or something like that—he stepped forward and caught _her_ appraising eye.

He would never admit to Georgie that Lizzie Bennet's _Sixpoint_ photo did her absolutely no credit.

"Miss Bennet," he offered stiffly, hoping his detached tone hid some measure of his discomfort. Here was the thorn in his side, in the flesh. Less than three feet away from him. She was shorter than he had imagined. Much shorter.

"Mr. Darcy."

The smile that played on her lips both terrified and confused him. What _exactly_ did she find so damn _amusing_?

"Come now," Mrs. Bennet scolded the unhappy couple. "It's not 1812. I won't have any of that here."

She gestured wildly from one to the other with her hands.

"Lizzie, say hello to William. William, Lizzie."

"Will, please," he corrected. If the name Fitzwilliam made him feel stodgy, hearing himself called 'William' was a close second. William had been his father's name. Not his.

To his rapt surprise, Lizzie Bennet's smile only grew wider. A deep feeling of dread began to rise within him.

"Elizabeth."

"Lizzie!" her mother countered with a squawk.

She prolonged the moment by lightly clearing her throat before she turned her eyes back to him, and Darcy suddenly felt the full weight of remaining entirely in her sights.

"Lizzie is fine."

Any sign of a truce, however tenuous, was apparently good enough for Mrs. Bennet, whose elaborate plans for the weekend would not be gainsaid for all the tea in China. She grabbed Lizzie and Darcy by the arms and practically propelled the whole party out the door—using her razor sharp inflection as much as her vice grip.

"Now, come on around back," Mrs. Bennet continued, irrespective of any response from either her guests or daughters. "Yes, just leave your bags there, Tom will see to them. Charles, you'll be staying with Jane, yes? That's right, we're all adults. None of that false modesty here. I remember when Thomas and I were still young and experiencing the first throes of a very passionate love. Why, we couldn't keep our hands off each other! We did it everywhere, and I mean _everywhere_! I remember this one time, it must have been our senior year of high school just before Jane was born, when we scaled the bleachers together and–"

"MOM!"

Darcy turned just in time to see a deep crimson blush sweep across Lizzie Bennet's cheeks. Vulgar mother? Check. Served her right.

"Lizzie, I'm sure everyone here is able to work out that your father and I have a sexual relationship. We _do_ have three daughters, after all. Or did you still think the stork brought you?"

"I had high hopes for adoption," Lizzie groaned with an exaggerated roll of her eyes.

"No, no, Lizzie. You're entirely mine and your father's, the result of a wild weekend in Tuna Canyon. It took me _days_ to get all that sand out of my–"

"MOM!"

It was Jane Bennet's voice which silenced their mother this time. Unfortunately, the youngest Bennet daughter, _Lorna, Lina, Lara?_ —was now lost to a fit of hysterics.

" _Tuna Canyon_ , mom? Seriously? Lizzie! Ooh, la la! Lovely Lizzie from Tuna Canyon!"

"It was very romantic, I'll have you know," Mrs. Bennet snipped. To Darcy's horror, she then turned back to address them directly. "Sorry, boys. It seems the fun police have started handing out citations."

Darcy breathed a sigh of relief. He knew he was celebrating rather too soon, but he felt relief nonetheless.

"Come on then!" Mrs. Bennet said as she directed them to the back lawn, where they were met by no fewer than three fully stocked coolers, a smattering of chairs, and a large fire-pit that Darcy assumed would be put to good use later. It looked like it was on its last legs and he momentarily worried for their safety until Mrs. Bennet's piercing tone interrupted his thoughts once again.

"Don't worry, Will! We'll have no soapboxes here tonight. Lizzie cools off considerably when she gets a few margaritas under her belt, you know. What! It's true! And don't glare at me like that, dear," she called to her daughter. "You'll get wrinkles. Nobody wants to marry a girl under thirty with wrinkles."

Once her latest censure of her middle daughter had been completed to her satisfaction, Mrs. Bennet indicated that the gentlemen should take the adirondak chairs nearest to the grill and disappeared into the house with…the younger one, presumably to locate the still missing Mr. Bennet.

The four remaining members of the party let a minute of blissful, requisite silence pass before anyone even considered speaking.

"Sorry about that," said Jane a moment later. "My mom can be…a bit much. At least the first time you meet her."

"I think she's great!" Charles grinned.

Lizzie laughed the first full laugh Darcy had heard from her since he entered the cabin that afternoon. The sound gave him goosebumps—a reaction he should have expected, he assumed, given that she likely spent so much of her time putting that venomous, deceptively musical laugh to use at his expense.

"Of course you do, Charles," she teased. "You think _everyone's_ great."

The words caught in her throat and she turned to catch Darcy's eye, an unconscious movement on her part which left _everyone_ uneasy. In reply, _everyone_ stared right back into those deep cerulean eyes of hers, and dared her. Perhaps sensing his silent challenge or taking note of the momentary discomfort in the air, Lizzie blinked rapidly and looked away.

Darcy quickly added a thick '1' to his mental column which tallied the points between himself and _The Catblogger_ , not bothering to take note of the abundant, haphazard scratches which had already been collected under hers.

"It's…it's what makes you and Jane so good for one another," she stammered. "I don't think Jane has ever had a mean word to say about anyone in her life."

"Yes," Charles agreed, somewhat uncomfortably, his eyes fixed on his friend.

"It's good she has someone to pick up the slack then," Darcy mumbled to himself.

The eyes were back on him in a flash. If the way they cut into him was any indication, Lizzie Bennet was most seriously displeased.

"Excuse me?"

The change in her temper was so quick that it took him a moment to catch up. The woman was like a summer storm, all light, sweet showers followed by fire and brimstone at the least notice.

"Nothing, sorry," he grasped. "I was just—is there wifi here?"

"Nope."

Apparently the complete and total lack of contact with the outside world amused her too. Did that smile _ever_ leave her lips? Was it some sort of permanent appendance? Had she had it tattooed? He knew she had a tattoo somewhere. She had mentioned it in her first article. The stubborn thought hadn't left him since.

"Looks like your handlers will have to send word by carrier pigeon or express rider, Mr. Darcy."

Darcy pressed a tightened fist against the back of the chair Mrs. Bennet had indicated to him and leaned against it, attempting to cover his rising agitation with a look of casual indifference.

"Will. Sorry, my _handlers_?"

Jane turned from her huddle with Charles to shoot her sister a look it was impossible for any of them to miss. Apparently Jane Bennet had more moxie to her than Darcy had given her credit for.

"Lizzie."

"I'm sorry, that was rude," Lizzie apologized _to her sister_.

Seemingly mollified, Jane returned to her own conversation. When Lizzie fixed her attention back on him, she tilted her head to the side and raised a brow at his practiced expression of relaxation. Somehow, he got the feeling she saw right through him.

This was going to be difficult. This was going to be more difficult than he expected.

 _Why hadn't he driven alone?_

"You'll be glad to hear that I made a blood oath to be on my very best behavior, Mr. Darcy," the blue-eyed devil before him whispered almost breathlessly, as though they were sharing some kind of secret. She fired that wispy smile at him again and bit one corner of her lip in a half-hearted attempt to contain it. Darcy was irritated to find himself quite considerably thrown off by the gesture.

He coughed.

It was probably all part of her master plan.

"That does sound...serious."

Was he _sweating_? It was _May_. In _Wisconsin_.

"Yes, it is," she replied with a nod. "Can I assume you've given Charles and Jane all the same assurances then?"

"I have."

"Perfect," the imp smirked. "This weekend is going to fly by."

Darcy had a feeling it would do nothing of the kind.

Unbeknownst to him, Lizzie wholeheartedly agreed.

* * *

 **Next time on P &Pol**: Margaritas, potato salad, and a whole lot of fireworks.

As always, please leave any messages of support for our (un)happy couple (or for me!) in the comments!


	6. Chapter 6

Hey all!

I know this chapter isn't what a lot of you are waiting for me to post, but it's going to have to do today! I'm super nervous about the next few PL chapters so I'm going to be reading and rereading them until forever if I don't just post something already. Since P&Pol is such a nice little vehicle for my escapism (and feeling waaay more agreeable at the moment), I thought it would be a good way to get back into posting again.

Hope you enjoy it!

xo brynn

* * *

 ** **CHAPTER SIX****

* * *

"Darcy grab me another beer will you?"

"And Lizzie needs another margaritaaa!"

Lizzie reclined in her chair and kicked off her sandals, shaking her head at her younger sister. Lydia, still a good three years away from drinking (at least legally), was always the first one to suggest someone was in need of a fresh drink. Lizzie had a sneaking suspicion she knew exactly what happened to the half-empty ones. Part of her wondered why her younger sister even bothered. It wasn't like either of their parents would have minded if she cracked open a drink of her own. Then again, Lydia probably wanted to be caught.

"I definitely do not."

Mrs. Bennet, taking full note of her daughters' conversation and all that was implied by it, seemed to feel the night was in danger of tanking. She took her anxiety out on Lizzie, as was her habit.

"You definitely _do too_ , Lizzie! You've barely said a word all night! Who knew you'd become so dreadfully boring in your… well you know, you're not getting any younger."

"Leave the girl alone, Fran," called Tom Bennet from his defensive position behind the grill. "I'm sure Lizzie will grace us with more than enough of her conversation before the weekend is out." He shot his daughter a wink. "It's against her nature to hold that tongue of hers for much longer."

Lizzie flashed her father a bright smile. "You're wrong, dad. I've taken a vow of silence."

"Ah, and yet how quickly it is broken," Mr. Bennet observed, pulling an assortment of meats from a nearby cooler. When he raised himself back to his full height, he locked eyes with Darcy. "Go on then, young man. Bring my impudent daughter a drink." Nodding to Darcy's near empty glass, he dispatched a quick wink at the younger man. "You're likely to need one too. I think the fireworks are about to start."

When Darcy returned with Lizzie's _pre-mixed_ margarita _from a jug_ in one hand and a heavy pour of surprisingly passable whiskey for himself in the other, he realized that he had entirely forgotten about Charles' request. One look in his friend's direction was all Darcy needed to absolve himself of any guilt he might have felt on that account. Charles was curled up with Jane under a blanket across the lawn, stargazing between quiet whispers and soft pecks.

Charles could fend for himself.

He settled himself in the chair next to Lizzie and held out her glass. As she took it from him, their hands met briefly and he bristled at the contact, somewhat surprised to find her skin warm and soft against his chilled fingers.

Lizzie Bennet was human after all.

"Whiskey, hm?" she smirked. "And to think I had you pegged as a fancy red wine drinker. Tell me, Mr. Darcy, can you tell your aroma from your bouquet?"

"Can _you_?" he shot back, more than a little unsettled by the sudden, almost playful change in her tone.

 _Vow of silence indeed._

"There we have it! Two questions answered then," she snorted, her eyes following a fingertip as it lazily traced the rim of her glass. "And yes, Mr. Darcy, _I_ can. I took a wine course for a Sixpoint piece a couple of years back."

She must have been waiting for him to reply, but the twitch of her brow told him the time for his reply had passed before he realized it had arrived.

"I was _also_ surprised that they let me in," she smiled, the barest suggestion of a laugh filling the space between them. "Fortunately, as it turns out, my poor little provincial nose is just as capable of sniffing out a decent Cab Franc as the rest of them." She sighed dramatically before adding, "but even we laypeople must have our amusements."

Darcy frowned. "I'm sorry, that didn't come out how I meant it to."

Not much did around her, apparently.

Lizzie shrugged and stared off in the distance at what looked to Darcy like a blotchy green blur. After a long moment had passed between them, he knew that any further attempts at civil conversation would need to come from him. Unfortunately, little of what he _wanted_ to say to her could be construed as civil and she had made it abundantly clear from her articles that she felt the same.

Still, for some reason, he thought he might actually prefer her insults over the uneasy silence that had started to settle over them. Darcy cleared his throat. Surely there was _something_ he could say that she wouldn't take offense to?

"Your dad seems... interesting," he offered hesitantly.

 _Right, Darcy,_ he scolded himself. _Because insulting her parents is hardly offensive._

Oddly enough, he seemed to have the right of it. In this instance, at least.

"Yes, he is," she replied with a surprising softness, her eyes smiling on Mr. Bennet as he passed Charles a beer across the lawn. "He's a philosophy professor at U of C."

She turned her face to him, wearing the same fleeting grin which he had found so irritating throughout the day. Was it the light of the fire that seemed to warm her expression, or was it a trick of his imagination?

"We share all sorts of unpopular opinions," she added, returning her attention to the drink in her hands.

Darcy recognized the trap being laid before him, but this time he did not hesitate in replying.

"Such as?"

She laughed— _God help him._

"A vow of silence, Mr. Darcy," she smirked. "You won't get anything out of me tonight."

Darcy felt himself flinch and only hoped she hadn't seen it. He had spent most of the day attempting to ignore her, speaking only when spoken to and examining the surrounding foliage at every opportunity.

He wished he could disappear into it.

Given that " _Charlie_ " appeared to have become something of a novelty to the Bennet ladies, he might have done so, if it weren't for the fact that Mr. Bennet seemed to have taken such an eager interest in him. The man had encouraged him into conversation on more than one occasion, asking about everything from his business to books he had read recently. At times, he had the distinct impression that Mr. Bennet—Tom—was attempting to suss him out, which was ridiculous, of course. Aside from Charles' eventual wedding to Jane Bennet, he would likely never see any of them again.

He had felt her eyes on him more than once during his exchanges with her father, which inevitably caused him to lose his train of thought. Did she think he might offend her father somehow? Was she stockpiling information for her next public assassination of his character? What could she possibly have to say regarding his opinion of _Roman Honor_?

When his conversation became somewhat stilted as a result, Mr. Bennet only smiled.

 _The old fox. So that's where she gets it._

But she seemed determined to bait him now—maybe there was something to her mother's margarita theory, after all? _She_ certainly hadn't appeared uncomfortable in the slightest, laughing with her family and trading banter and comfortable smiles with " _Charlie_ " all afternoon. He knew that she and Charles must have spent some time together—he was planning on becoming engaged to her sister, obviously—but he found that their familiarity only irritated him further. As for himself, she had barely acknowledged him, except for the few times when he had felt her watching him with eyes full of mischief and misunderstanding.

 _Mr. Darcy._

If her goal was to agitate him out of his indifference, it was certainly working.

"Will you please stop calling me that?" he announced suddenly, surprising himself. "I'm not some stuffy old headmaster at your school."

She laughed again and he couldn't find it in himself to regret the sound—despite the fact that it was clearly at his expense.

"No," she said through tight lips, her eyes sparkling. "You're definitely not that."

She paused for a moment and he could see the evidence of her fighting back another peel of laughter in the way she bit her bottom lip.

 _What, exactly, did she find so amusing?_

"However," she continued, apparently decided upon baiting him further. "I do have to say I find it interesting that you would imagine usin those roles." She bit her lip again and he might as well have swallowed his tongue. "Itching to teach me a lesson, are you?"

He found he agreed with her. _Yes_ , there were more than a few ways he'd like to discipline _Miss Bennet_ at the moment, but he could hardly tell her that. He was having a hard enough time explaining it to himself.

"In the interest of both of our good words, I'll pretend I didn't hear that," he replied distractedly, taking a sip of his drink.

 _Why on earth was his mouth so dry?_

"How generous of you!" she _giggled_. "I'd hate to be the cause of any irreparable damage to your self image, so we better change the subject then."

He said nothing, which—evidently—only encouraged her.

"Tell me, what's Mount Olympus like, Mr. Darcy? That fantastic penthouse of yours, I mean," she said, all evidence of her stifled laughter moving from her lips to her eyes. "I read somewhere that you had a sky-deck put in last summer and I can't help but wonder if the air really is better up there, so high above the clouds, the pollution of the city, all the petty noise and inconvenient distractions of the people below."

Darcy took another long drink, unsure if he was trying to consider his response or keep the words from pouring out. Ultimately, he decided to play it safe. She had the home-court advantage, after all. There was no telling what she might do with it.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

Her eyes settled on his and, for a brief moment, he felt all the success of avoiding her maneuvers.

He held her stare, refusing to give her the pleasure of looking away. She would look away first or he would remain firmly locked in her sights forever. He had certainly ceded enough this weekend already.

No, he would carry this point.

She would look away first.

He knew she would.

Unfortunately, he seemed destined for disappointment—at least when it came to Elizabeth Bennet.

Matching his steady gaze with her own, she appeared to be contemplating... _something_ , though her expression gave nothing of her inner monologue away. As he preferred not to imagine what she might be thinking of him at the moment, he focused his attention on the way the flames from the fire pit reflected in her fine eyes.

 _Oh, it's "fine eyes," now, is it? Get a grip, man!_

"I'm sure you do," she said quietly, her fine eyes still locked with his. "But you're right. That was a cheap shot."

Another long moment of silence passed between them as Lizzie openly continued her contemplation of whatever she saw fit to disagree with on his person and Darcy stubbornly refused to give anything away.

In fact, if she was going to make some sort of study of him, he might as well return the favor.

He took the opportunity offered by their impromptu stalemate to examine the details of her face. He was happy to find that—under the most intense scrutiny—there was nothing particularly noteworthy in the shape or set of her features. Her eyes were a nice enough shade of light blue—near enough to a glacial ice that he found himself appreciating the joke despite himself. And they were formed well enough, or certainly well enough to be considered _expressive_. They were, perhaps, a little wide to fit the shape of her face, but not so large that they overwhelmed her. They were brighter in the light of the fire than he had ever seen them, their edges clearly defined by dark beds of thick, curled lashes that rested under her unfortunately flawless brows—which were raised in a sort of challenge even now.

Losing sight of his original purpose, he followed the lines of her face downward, his gaze skirting along the slight lift to the tip of her nose. From there, it was only natural that his eyes would fall upon her soft, elegantly curved mouth.

True, her lips weren't nearly as full as those of the women he usually dated, which he knew they owed more to modern science than any miracle of nature, but while hers lacked the exaggerated plumpness that was fashionable, they were suitably supple and almost excessively alluring, though he was loathe to admit it—even to himself. He particularly enjoyed the way the corners of her mouth twitched upwards when she was enjoying herself but didn't want to show it, like she had been before—but, he suddenly realized, she was not now.

Darcy's brow furrowed and he returned his attention to her eyes _where it should have remained_. To his great relief, she seemed to grow uncomfortable almost immediately and she turned to face the fire pit. He followed her example and said nothing, suddenly aware of the mixed conversations happening around them once again.

"So," she announced after a moment, in a voice Darcy was glad to find somewhat uneasy. "What should we talk about then, since we can't talk about anything?"

"Why don't we talk about you?" he said rather too casually, rocking the half-melted ice in his glass from side to side. He wasn't sure if he needed another drink to settle his nerves or if pouring any more liquid courage over this evening was the absolute worst idea possible.

He felt her watching him again and took another sip, refusing to play into her game so easily. He would not be intimidated. Not by _her_.

"After all, I think we've covered most of your opinions on me."

She laughed again and he congratulated himself on feeling nothing.

"Careful, careful, Mr. Darcy," she teased as their eyes met briefly over their respective glasses. "It sounds like you're very close to breaking your own vow."

"Hardly," Darcy smiled. Two could play at that game. "My mother once told me that if I don't have anything nice to say, I shouldn't say anything at all."

If she understood his meaning she played it off well enough with an indifferent shrug.

"Well that accounts for your silence today at least," she said with a slight grin and a roll of her eyes. "Do you always follow your mother's very good advice?"

His face fell. Yes, she understood, all right.

 _And_ _point Miss Bennet_ , _at that_.

Placing his glass on the arm of his adirondack chair, he tapped the lip with his finger. No, he most definitely did _not_ always follow his mother's advice—superlative as it always had been. As much as he had loved his mother, he had tried not to think of her more often than not for as long as he could remember. He had no interest in imagining her opinion on the manner in which he had lived his life in the ten years since her passing, and especially in the five since he and Georgiana had lost their father. And Georgiana— _no_ , he definitely didn't want to think about Georgiana tonight. Thinking about Georgiana would eventually lead to thinking about _him_ , and there was no way in hell—

Lost to his thoughts, Darcy didn't realize that Lizzie was still awaiting his response until she cleared her throat beside him.

"About that," he grunted, closing his eyes. He didn't want to look at her when he said it, but it had to be said all the same. His mother would have demanded it.

"Yes, About that."

"Please allow me to apologize for what... for what you overheard that night at the fundraiser. I was completely out of line."

"Yes, you were," she laughed. His eyes were back on her before he realized he had opened them. There was that teasing smile again, lighting up her face and pulling at the corners of her lips. He was not as fond of it now as he had been earlier.

"So..." He drawled, unsure of how to continue. He hoped she might take the hint and do it for him.

"So?"

Apparently, she would not.

Darcy sipped his drink and attempted an expression of nonchalance that ran contrary to all his inner feelings. Perhaps if he could appear indifferent, he could feel it, too. Unfortunately, his mouth refused to participate in such a farce and before he could think to stop himself he was already saying the words.

"Isn't there anything _you_ want to say?"

Those eyes of hers were practically waltzing now, and Darcy was understandably distressed to find himself spinning in circles.

"I think I already did," she said coolly, her expression suddenly as cold as ice. "You said you were out of line. I agreed with you. I think that about covers it, don't you?"

He was fuming now.

 _Absolutely, positively, entirely on fire._

Who did this woman think she was? He _had_ apologized, after all, and this she-devil, this hellion, this blasted _succubus_ absolutely refused to offer him any sort of compensation for all of the trouble she had put him through over the past three months? She felt no remorse for the hundreds—no _thousands_ —of messages, letters, and dirty looks he had received from what felt like every woman, and very nearly every man, in the city? He couldn't even take the Metra to work anymore for fear of being recognized—not that he had ever really made a habit of taking public transit before—but he should be able to if he wanted!

And his campaign! Who knew what Lizzie Bennet's little "cat-and-taco blog" could mean for his political career? Despite his work at Darcy Development, he had always planned to follow in his father's footsteps— _everyone_ had planned it! William Darcy, the city finance director; William Darcy, state representative; The Honorable William G. Darcy, United States Senator. The party had even pressed his father to run on the national ticket before the cancer came. The Darcy name _meant something_ , to _all_ of them. His father had always been very clear about that—and William G. Darcy would never have let a publication as inane as the _Sixpoint Star_ put his very reputation at risk.

But times were different now, and Darcy knew it—no matter what Caroline might say. Lizzie Bennet's blog certainly had the potential to ruin every carefully laid plan for his future—and it didn't seem to bother her at all.

"And that's all the reply I should expect?" he seethed, the words practically burning their way up his throat. "Nothing about... You're just going to agree with me?"

Lizzie Bennet had drawn herself up in her chair, her knuckles a thin white line along the length of her glass. Darcy fleetingly worried for her safety if it should burst in her hands. _Very_ fleetingly.

"Were you expecting something else?"

Taking a deep breath to settle his nerves, Darcy found the splotch of orange and plaid he knew must be his friend. It seemed to be moving in his direction, at least as far as he could tell.

 _Charles, Charles, Charles_ , he said to himself. _Think about Charles._

"I suppose not," he conceded with a shrug. "The fact that you're agreeing with me about anything at all is probably a miracle in itself." He attempted a friendly sort of smile, but he had a feeling that the resulting expression was a failure.

It was.

"That's another lesson from my mother," he grumbled. "Beggars can't be choosers. I'm sure your readers will be blown away."

Lizzie Bennet's expression turned on a dime once again, though this time he appreciated its direction. He tried to keep thinking about Charles, but his attention settled on the familiar twist of her lips. He took a deep breath to steady himself for what was to come. At least he seemed to be learning to anticipate her—some of the time. It was a sort of consolation.

"Are you _begging_ me now, Mr. Darcy?" She teased, eyes wide, mouth open, her voice absolutely dripping with feigned astonishment. A fluttering hand rose to her chest and remained there.

Despite himself, he felt a smile forming. Lizzie Bennet could certainly give Caroline Bingley a run for her money when it came to good, old-fashioned, exaggerated swooning. He cleared his throat, swallowed, and attempted to bring his features under some sort of regulation.

"Hardly."

He was definitely going to need another drink if she kept this up, but he refused to be distracted from his purpose. He stared into the distance, attempting to imagine himself anywhere but sitting beside a campfire _smiling_ at Lizzie Bennet. He would be entirely indifferent to her. He would rise above her petty opinions and irritating asides. He would be home soon— _back on his mountaintop, as she called it_ —and he would feel all the advantages of being removed from her vulgar accusations and sparkling eyes. He was so engaged in this activity that he almost missed the moment when her guard slipped down.

Oh, all right," she said slowly, her voice nearly a whisper.

Darcy watched her from the corner of his eye as she picked her way through her words. She took a deep breath, only the top of her head visible as she spoke into her lap. She was clearly uncomfortable, but he found no great victory in it as he had earlier.

"I guess... well," she stammered. "I may have taken some artistic license with the first article."

She looked up at him then and he was surprised to find that she looked almost… vulnerable. The change in her expression was so abrupt and absolute that he thought she might do better to dedicate herself to science than journalism. Lizzie Bennet was an absolute study in emotion.

He felt the laughter rise up within him and resolved not to fight it. If he felt ridiculous now, he might as well own it. She followed him with her dancing eyes and laughed herself, the awkwardness of the moment broken by their shared and oddly refreshing amusement.

Crossing his legs, he leaned against one bent elbow and raised the other arm—the one holding his glass—in a light toast to her. No words could match the strangeness he felt at the moment and so he did not try to find them. Matching his gesture with a wide smile, she pulled her legs underneath her and sank to her side, her bright eyes meeting his head-on.

She was suddenly so close that he couldn't help himself. Her face, which he had examined so thoroughly earlier, was now less than eight inches or so from his own, and though he might have liked to study her better from this angle—he was lost to much different thoughts now than he had been then.

He had to do it.

There was nothing stopping him.

He leaned forward and wet his lips.

"Just the first?" he breathed, raising a brow of his own. "Seriously?"

The satisfying sound of her full, animated laughter filled the lawn. As Darcy watched her he was only dimly aware of the number of heads turning in their direction.

"Your mother sounds like a very astute woman, Mr. Darcy," she positively beamed at him. "Any more words of wisdom you'd like to share? I seem to remember one about a gift horse?"

Before he could answer, Charles' voice rang out from somewhere behind her. It was just as well, because he had no idea what he meant to say to her. Judging by the odd sense of buoyancy he felt stirring inside, it was probably something she'd take offense to.

Lizzie seemed equally surprised to see Charles standing so near them, and Darcy noticed that the welcoming smile she flashed him did not quite reach her eyes.

"And how are things going over here?" Charles beamed, clapping his hands together. "Jane and I were just saying how nice it is to see the two of you getting along. Jane always said she thought the pair of you you would be a good fit, if not for the… well, you know."

"Things are… fine," Lizzie said in a quiet voice, eyeing Darcy warily. "You've just caught us exchanging proverbs, that's all. Have a seat, Charlie."

The unexpectedly pleasant moment broken, Darcy leaned back against the chair and regarded the fire pit with renewed vigor as Charles settled into the seat on his opposite side.

He allowed his thoughts to wander as Lizzie peppered Charles with questions about the new project he and Jane had been developing— _well done there_. They had both heard it all before, of course, but they might as well hear it again. If the topic avoided any more of Charles' interest in their own conversation—much less their supposed _compatibility_ , well, it was fine by him. Darcy hadn't taken Jane Bennet for an idiot, but she certainly didn't know her sister half so well as she let on.

 _A good fit? Hardly. More like a round peg in a square hole. There's a proverb for you, Miss Bennet._

Darcy gazed into the fire as Charles repeated something about a problem he was having with zoning regulations. He had intended to listen, of course, but the soft hum of spring, the draw of the fire, and the nearly empty glass in his hand were all a testament to a sort of comfortable intoxication that had been gradually falling over him for the better part of the last half hour.

He was tired— _m_ _ore_ than tired. He was drained. It was entirely possible that he had used up all of his remaining energy on the brief tête-à-tête with Lizzie Bennet. After all, he rarely felt as on-guard as he had this evening and never more so than when in her company. Or—maybe Charles was right. Maybe he needed to relax. Maybe he needed to speak more and think less. Maybe he would be happier if he were more like Charles Bingley and less like _Mr. Darcy_.

 _Maybe._

Finishing what was left of his drink, he watched as the flames licked and curled and slunk their way up and down the few remaining logs, devouring them in a dance of shadow and light. At this moment, he imagined he knew exactly how they felt.

 _Warm._

Maybe the second pour of whiskey was a bad idea after all.

It was then that he heard Jane Bennet's clear voice calling from somewhere in the distance. Lizzie and Charles had already started to stir in their seats, so he had some idea of it being a repeated request for their attention.

"Come _on_ , guys!" Her clear voice rang out across the lawn. "The fireworks are starting!"

As the trio rose from their chairs to join the rest of their small party, the sound of Mr. Bennet's voice surprised them all from the place he had long-since claimed on the deck behind them.

"Funny," the gentleman laughed. "I could have sworn the show just ended."

* * *

Thanks for reading!


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